


we were meant to sleep (in the dirt)

by hanekawa



Category: Shingeki no Bahamut: Virgin Soul
Genre: M/M, Mention of Death, Mention of torture, Non-Consensual Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 01:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11071047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanekawa/pseuds/hanekawa
Summary: Upon reflection, Charioce doesn't actually know why he spares Azazel's life.





	we were meant to sleep (in the dirt)

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after ep8.

.  
  
.  
  
Upon reflection, Charioce doesn't actually know why he spares Azazel's life.  
  
He gives Kaisar an ultimatum, and Kaisar accepts it and performs splendidly he has no other way than to reward such bravery - hence him not slicing Azazel's head off. But he couldn’t pardon the act itself, so off to jail in isolated island Kaisar goes.  
  
Which leaves him with his current predicament: he has so much to talk about and yet none to talk to.  
  
Talking to his aides or his Onyx Captain is no good because they only ever nod to his orders without ever offering counterarguments or whatever.  
  
So he goes to the underground prison below the castle where Azazel’s being held.  
  
Maybe, if nothing else, the demon could be his sounding board.  
  
To be frank, he doesn’t have much uses for Azazel, since he pretty much killed all of Azazel’s comrades and he knows the rest of the demon realm are still recovering and in hiding and won’t come out any time soon (he made sure of that when he destroyed Cocytus).  
  
But he needs an excuse to let Azazel live, so he uses ‘ _detained to be questioned over the whereabouts of the rest of his comrades_ ’ as the reason he had yet to kill Azazel. His aides are skeptical, understandably, and he can’t blame them really. But he’s The King and his words are law and they won’t risk painting suspicion of treason on themselves so they shut up and accept it.  
  
Arriving on the last step of the stairs, he could hear the sound of Azazel’s cries.  
  
He pauses.  
  
The door of the dungeon looks big and * _unsightly_ *, even to him. It always seems so unfit to be here – the elegant and delicate lines of the wood carving adorning the steel door made of the finest ore. It looks like it means to be somewhere calmer, somewhere beautiful, not here where dirt and cruelty would tarnish its delicate surface.  
  
Unsightly.  
  
It’s not meant to be here.  
  
(like him.)  
  
More than five years he has been living in this castle, but this place still looks unfamiliar and unwelcome as ever. But maybe that’s precisely because of it – because he wasn’t born here – that this place would never feel welcome to him.  
  
(unlike that little place he used to live with his sad, sad mother.)  
  
The heavy double doors part with just a slight push of his hand, and he would berate the guards for this evidence of lack of security, except they probably expecting him to visit again anyway.  
  
Still. No reason to let down their security like this.  
  
As expected, he could only ever rely on himself to get things done. With a sigh, he draws a sigil on the doors – one designed to keep both angels and demons out.  
  
Or keep them * _in_ *, in this case.  
  
(Azazel’s pretty beaten up and weakened and he can’t feel much magical energy from the demon, but it’s better to be cautious.)  
  
He draws near to Azazel, the sound of his steps completely covered by the sound of Azazel’s pained screams.  
  
With a slight nod from him, the guard in charge of the torture salutes and leaves the room.  
  
He waits.  
  
It takes a little while before Azazel registers his presence. He notices the slight eye twitch because he’s been watching the demon, and for a demon who’s supposed to have lived thousands of years, Azazel’s surprisingly easy to read.  
  
That’s what arrogance does to you, he thinks. It makes you feel invulnerable to the point you forget to protect yourself, to hide your thoughts from those trying to exploit what matters to you most. Once you’re brought low, it’s often already too late to learn.  
  
And Charioce learns. Oh he learns how not to be vulnerable from the beginning, because he swore he won’t end up like his kind, gentle mother – cast aside and abandoned by the king once she used up her usefulness.  
  
Charioce is neither gentle nor kind.  
  
Unlike the demon before him.  
  
He has seen the way Azazel kept freezing every time the demon’s eyes fell on his dead comrades – particularly the female one. He supposes it’s kindness – the way the demon worried and mourned for his fallen comrades.  
  
If anything, he’s disappointed.  
  
He was expecting the same ferocious rag demon, the demon who fears nothing and cares not for death, to come and challenge him; yet what actually comes out is a shadow of its former self – a demon who’s being careful, a demon who tries to protect instead of focusing on attacking.  
  
A demon who has gone _soft._  
  
Azazel doesn’t come to win; he comes to protect, which is a total mistake.  
  
No wonder the demons take too long to rebuild, if what remains are just this kind of soft-hearted demons who are more suited to be babysitting than fighting a war.  
  
He tells this to Azazel.  
  
“Go to hell.” Azazel says, with enough malice in his eyes to convince Charioce that the ferocious rag demon is still there, he’s just pretty much in hiding.  
  
“Can’t do that, can I?” Charioce says. “I did destroy Cocytus. I mean, Cocytus is—well, _was_ —just another name for hell, was it not?”  
  
Azazel growls.  
  
He growls loud enough to make the fine hair around his neck tremble from the vibration. Just like an animal.  
  
One that is ever so aesthetically pleasing to the eye, if he was being honest.  
  
Gods and angels are born out of humans’ prayers, and therefore their forms are made to be acceptable to the humans’ eye. Supposedly that’s one of the reasons why gods and angels all look so aesthetically pleasing – because the humans * _wish_ * it.  
  
So what of the demons then, who are supposed to be evils, the embodiment of humans’ fears and worst desires? Why do some look so hideous, and some, like the one chained before him, look pretty passable for a human?  
  
“Why are you here?” Azazel asks, voice raw. Either from suppressed fury or too exhausted from the torture, he doesn’t know.  
  
(he has Azazel tortured just because; he knows Azazel knows nothing about the holy child (their first meeting here pretty much confirmed that) and he knows Azazel doesn’t have any comrades left (he killed them all). But he still needs an excuse to appease his aides and court, so torture it is.)  
  
“I came to see if you finally have a change of heart.”  
  
Azazel narrows his eyes. “A change of heart.”  
  
“Why don’t you and I team up to go against the gods?” he smiles. He’s really good at smiling – even if some called his smile too cold to ever be genuine.  
  
No matter.  
  
People say ‘ _smile so you could put others at ease_.’ He never understands the expression. If a smile is a self-expression, then it should not matter how other people perceive it. After all, it * _is_ * an expression of self. The only one that matter should be the one who produces the smile in the first place.  
  
“You and I.” Azazel repeats.  
  
Charioce hopes the way Azazel could only repeats his words is not because the torture is too severe or something. He only means to detain him, not torture him into being useless.  
  
“You and I, and the former saint too, of course. After all, there couldn’t be bigger insult to the gods than having a former believer attacking them.”  
  
Having demons on this fight will further the insult. It would state that gods are no longer wanted and needed; non believers don’t care about them, believers break their faith to go against them, and demons simply despise them. The gods would have no power source left.  
  
From the look on azazel's face, the demon knows perfectly what he's aiming for with that statement.  
  
“If you think I would ever team up with the guy who single-handedly destroyed Cocytus and killed my brethren, then you’re clearly mad.”  
  
Charioce smiles further. “But you demons kill each other plenty. Why would my action make a difference?”  
  
Azazel glares at him.  
  
“It’s because I’m a human, isn’t it.” Oh he’s enjoying this, he is. “You just can’t bear the thought of some lowly human besting you.”  
  
Azazel glares further.  
  
Charioce steps closer, up until he’s right in front of Azazel and the demon has to look up at him since his legs fail him and the only thing holding him up are the restrains around his body and arms.  
  
From the twitch between his eyes, it’s clear Azazel really, really despises their current arrangement – that Charioce could exercise his powers over him and he, weakened and hurt, won’t be able to stop him.  
  
“Likewise, I find it hard to believe that you really meant your offer. That you would ever tarnish your reputation by working together with evil, * _filthy_ * demons.” Azazel spits, pure hatred in his eyes.  
  
It’s those eyes, Charioce thinks, gripping Azazel’s jaw to make him look up further to the point of hurt – and it does hurt, as Azazel can’t hide his wince. From the first time they fought each other, it’s those eyes that attracted him – the way those eyes say _I despise you you and only you._  
  
The way everything else disappears and he's the only one remaining in those eyes.  
  
He likes it, he thinks.  
  
He pushes aside Azazel’s bang just so he could look better into those eyes.  
  
“What are you doing?” Azazel glares, and his voice just perhaps sounds rather bewildered. “Let go of me!”  
  
What is he doing indeed.  
  
One of his hands is on Azazel’s temple while the other still gripping his jaw, and it distinctly registers to him that Azazel has no wound left on his face even if his body is sporting plenty, both fresh and old.  
  
_Unsightly,_ he remembers telling Azazel that first time.  
  
Ugly.  
  
Unfit - unfit to be here – this place with all of its idiosyncrasy and the cold hard stone walls adorned with warm delicate wood carving. He could beat Azazel up until he’s bloody and ugly and covered in dirt but no matter how filthy he looks, Azazel would still not fit to be here, in this place, in this dungeon, this castle, this city – _this realm._  
  
Unfit.  
  
He could act and pretend all he wants, but he would never belongs here. Doesn’t matter whether he has the acknowledgment of the court. This castle is a tomb turned to life, old ghosts haunting and demanding glory from the bygone eras. This kingdom’s finished way before he was born, and he knows the glory he brings is temporary at best.  
  
He’s not meant for this castle— _this life._  
  
His retainers, who call him by his title and obeys his orders and never once wonders about the man behind the title.  
  
The people who call him by his father’s name and see only the ghost of him and not the great conqueror his son is.  
  
His sad, kind and gentle mother, who called him by his father’s name and saw only the shadow of the man who had abandoned her and not the son she had given birth to.  
  
He’s more than his father’s name.  
  
More than anything, he just.  
  
Wants someone to see him.  
  
He tells himself he doesn't know why he lets Azazel live.  
  
Right now, seeing his own face reflected on Azazel's eyes, he realizes he's been lying to himself.  
  
“Say my name.”  
  
“What?” Azazel frowns, visibly confused.  
  
“I said, say my name.” he makes it an order, and Azazel hisses.  
  
“You know damn well your own name! What the fuck.”  
  
He shifts his hands so that he’s cupping Azazel’s face, leaning down so that their faces are only inches apart.  
  
“Say it.”  
  
Azazel’s eyes widen.  
  
He doesn’t know what kind of face he’s making, but it’s enough to make Azazel hesitates.  
  
“ _Charioce!_ ” Azazel shouts. “Your name is Charioce okay! Are you satisfied now?!”  
  
He kisses him.  
  
If it could even be called that.  
  
He presses his lips to Azazel’s hard, just pressing, feeling the texture, and he uses Azazel’s yelp of surprise a moment later to gain access into his mouth. He wants to taste his name on Azazel’s tongue, he wants to swallow the breaths that let him shout out his name so loudly and so passionately, he wants to see himself reflected in those eyes as he devours the inside of his mouth. He wants those eyes to see him and keep seeing only him.  
  
He wants everything he could taste and all he could take and.  
  
And most of all.  
  
_He wants him._  
  
A searing pain on his tongue, and he pulls back only to realize what he tastes is his own blood, dripping into his palm from the corner of his mouth.  
  
He blinks.  
  
Azazel has bitten him.  
  
He sweeps the blood on his lips back into his mouth with his tongue, and swipes the remaining with his hand. What a waste, he thinks as he presses a drop of blood between his thumb and forefinger.  
  
“Are you mad?!” Azazel shouts, outraged.  
  
But Charioce just laughs and laughs and laughs.  
  
Those eyes—those pretty, pretty violet eyes are wide open, looking at him and only him with fury and just a dash of confusion. His lips part slightly, and he could see his own blood smearing Azazel’s lips, dripping into his jaw.   
  
Azazel looks _mad_.  
  
Azazel has never looked more beautiful in Charioce’s eyes.  
  
He smiles. “How unsightly.”  
  
_Just like me._  
  
.  
  
.  
  
/end


End file.
